


smother me please

by Nanimok



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Oblivious Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Thirsty Connor (Detroit: Become Human), shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 11:56:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20227456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanimok/pseuds/Nanimok
Summary: Markus asks for Connor's help with clothing options and proceeds to take his shirt off while Connor is still in the room because why not.





	smother me please

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mimoru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimoru/gifts), [tiredcreecher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiredcreecher/gifts), [feriswheel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feriswheel/gifts).

> for mimoroo, peixe and eri, who tolerated and encouraged the tiddy thirsting lakdjflkajdflkjalkdfj help me
> 
> beta-ed by [feriswheel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feriswheel) the queen of killing commas and semicolons hehe. I love her.

Knocking is more of a human concept since androids tend to ping their host before their arrival, but Connor raps his knuckles on the door anyway_—_Markus is quite fond of human customs. This isn’t the first time Markus has invited Connor up to his quarters. Connor has been here approximately forty-three times in the space of the last two months; ten escorting him to New Jericho’s meeting room, thirty-three purely for leisure as Connor tries to keep what Hank gruffly dubs as his ‘imprinting’ under control.

Even though he thinks Hank is exaggerating, Connor doesn't want to seem too clingy. But then, he thinks the exact same thing the last forty-three times he's been here. 

_ Connor, _ Markus greets, warm and pleased. _ Come in. I’m in the kitchen. _

Markus’s house is an open floor home, fitting for someone as open and welcoming—and so stereotypically artistic—as Markus. His kitchen technically doubles as his living room, guest room, and office. Not that he uses it much, since androids rarely eat, but Connor has introduced the joy of making homemade dog food to Markus and now Sumo is spoiled for choices.

“Hello, Markus,” Connor calls out as he puts his shoes on Markus’s shoe rack. “I believe you requested my help?”

On the kitchen table is a tablet, while the couch is sporting multiple blazers and dress shirts, carefully folded and all in different colours and styles. Markus stands a step away from the array, grasping his chin in one hand. 

Markus waves at a chair. “Please, sit. You remember the Staffords from Carl's event, right?”

Connor run a scan through his database. “Georgia and Charles Stafford,” Connor nods, sliding his seat out, “From the Institution of Nanotechnology Research.”

“They’re holding a fundraiser, and they’re sympathetic to our cause. Their technology will go far in the future of our healthcare, so it’s imperative that Jericho makes a good impression.” Markus holds up a deep red blouse up to his chest. “Their taste veers toward older aesthetics.” 

Not that Connor would complain about staring at Markus all day but...

“I’m still a little confused as to why you requested my help. Wouldn’t North be more suited for this mission?”

“Yes, but North’s unavailable until late afternoon.” Markus turns to Connor smoothing out the crinkles of his shirt. “What do you think? Do you think it looks good? ”

In Connor’s opinion, Markus looks good in everything he’s in. It’s the pure charisma that he wears—captivating and magnetic—so, so intrinsically _ Markus— _it will inspire anything with a hint of sentience. 

The button down is similar to the colour of red wine, contrasting the bright sharpness of his eyes. Connor tilts his head. “It’s a pleasing colour on you,” he says. 

Markus—Markus pouts? 

“Only pleasing?” he asks.

It's like watching a sunflower wilt in real time. Absolutely criminal.

“It’s _ very _pleasing,” Connor reassures him. 

“Hmm,” Markus says, flopping the shirt over the couch. He shrugs off his coat. “I need more than ‘very’ pleasing. I need ‘_ outstandingly’ _pleasing.”

Then, before Connor can collect himself, Markus reaches the zipper on his shoulder and undoes it all the way down, baring an expanse of beautiful brown skin, and a defined, _ bountiful, _ thick chest and biceps that are possibly bigger than Connor’s own _ head _—

Connor looks away, his LED flashing.

He’s overheating. He swears he is. Androids don’t dream, and pre-constructions are meant to be extrapolations on the most probable outcomes of a certain situation, but Connor has been pre-constructing a lot of far-fetched scenarios lately—about the feeling of Markus around him, the firm heat of his body, the press of his arms around Connor’s waist, Markus laughing in his ear, his hand brushing through Connor’s hair.

_ Stop it, Connor, _ he scolds himself. _ Stop… perving! Markus needs your help and you need to stop imposing your feelings on him! _

“Connor?” Markus asks.

“I—uh, yes.” Connor’s eyes snap back up to where Markus has regretfully buttoned up his shirt. “Pardon me?” 

Holding his arms out, Markus turns around. “Now that it’s _ on me _—”

_ RA9, I wish that were me. _Connor sighs to himself. 

“—what do you think?” Markus says. “Outstandingly pleasing? Or should I go with something that has a little more flair?”

The shirt hugs his shoulder like a second skin, clinging to all the right curves and muscle. Markus looks like he's made to model in an anatomy textbook. His arms could probably dent Connor's chassis if he squeezed Connor hard enough.

“Uh,” Connor says eloquently.

He pats himself down a little self-consciously. “There isn’t much in that era in terms of men’s wear, but they’re a bit old-fashioned, so I thought I’d play it safe. But this is giving me such a migraine that I might as well wash my hands off the whole event and show up naked.”

Androids don’t have a sense of modesty. They’re not supposed to. Yet Markus said the word ‘_naked’ _ and all of his vaulted multicore processors grinds to a screeching halt the moment Connor’s mind goes _ wild _. 

“Connor?” Markus’s face pops into view. “You alright?”

Connor blinks.

Markus presses his hand over Connor’s forehead, making Connor feel very human. “Are you feeling okay?” He tips Connor’s face up for his inspection. “Did you glitch out for a second?”

The pads of his fingers are calloused, rough on his skin. Connor presses into the warmth of Markus’s hands. “I think you look outstandingly pleasing in anything you choose to wear," he says. 

The line in Markus’s forehead softens. “You do,” Markus mutters fondly. “I need a little more than that though."

Connor feels slightly indignant. “You should be trusting my judgement. All of my qualities, including my sensibilities, are designed for a harmonious integration with humans.”

“You live with Hank, Connor,” he says simply.

Connor shuts his mouth. He purses his lips.

Markus gives a knowing grin. “I’ve seen what he wears. He can’t dress to save his life.”

“I suppose…” Connor tips in head in a concession. “You’re not wrong, but Hank’s terrible taste has absolutely no influence on me.”

Markus pats his cheek in a manner that reminds Connor of Hank whenever he's humouring Sumo. “I’m sure it doesn’t,” he says, moving on to the next shirt in his consideration.

Connor almost follows the trail of his touch through the air. It takes him a while to realise that Markus is humming a track by Knights of the Black Death—Hank’s and subsequently Connor’s favourite metal band, and Connor rolls his eyes.

“You’re just being picky,” Connor tells him.

Markus chuckles, hands tugging on the bottom of his shirt. The image strikes Connor like a hammer on a piece of metal. He looks away, flushing as thirium churns hot inside him.

With the sound of fabric rustling in the back, Connor, determined to ignore said rustling, fiddles with the tablet on the table. A customisable interface pops up, belonging to a freelance android designer. Connor plays around with the styles and colour combinations, tapping and sliding whatever strikes his fancy onto the dummy mannikin. 

Some of the outfits are a little too outlandish for Connor's tastes. One in particular has a marble sculpture—a _ vivid red _marble sculpture jutting out of its shoulder pads in a shape of a phoenix. 

_ Fashion Reborn: Garments made by Androids, for Androids. _

Intrigued, Connor opens its virtual runway. It's a bombardment on his optical sensors. There's everything, ranging from sharp lines of vantablack to eye-blistering neon—nothing that is sleek enough to ever be practical in Connor’s opinion. It’s loud, bold, and fearless, a fierce, fitting statement.

Connor might have stumbled onto the _ only _ thing in the whole of Detroit—possibly, the whole _ world— _that could ever hope to give Markus a run for his money in terms of sheer drama.

“Markus, look at this,” Connor says, tongue-in-cheek. “I believe I’ve found the perfect suit for you.”

Connor was ready—he’s already planned it all out. Markus would be offended by his implications, forgetting that he wears enough zippers and straps in a single coat that would put a backpacking store to shame. Connor would widen his eyes in an honest (and _ innocent _ ) show of confusion, because Connor earnestly, with his whole _ pure _heart, thought it would fit Markus’s style.

But typical of Markus; he derails Connor’s plan completely.

Markus is a very tactile person. He clasps his hands on shoulders and arms whenever he makes his impassioned speeches and it only adds to the captivating effect. By now, Connor’s used to Markus leaning on one shoulder or rubbing his back while they talk. So Connor thinks nothing of it when Markus rests his hand on Connor’s outer shoulder.

Connor turns his head, ready to shoot off a smart reply—

—and completely blue screens then and there.

Markus hasn’t buttoned his shirt. He’s leaning over him, caging his head with other arm, and his glorious, _bare, _chest is a hair's breadth away from brushing against Connor’s mouth, and _he_ _hasn’t buttoned his shirt. _Connor almost chokes on the heat radiating off of his chest.

Markus smells so delectably like himself.

Connor wants to bury his head in and suffocate himself with it.

Reaching up, he discretely loosens his tie.

“I know that you’re just being a little shit, but I kind of like it,” Markus says, swiping through the catalogue, shifting on his feet, bringing his tantalising chest closer and closer to Connor’s face.

“Ah,” Connor says.

“What do you think of this one?” Markus taps and zooms in on the tablet. “Hmm. I might save that one for a special occasion, actually.”

“Okay,” Connor says weakly.

He’s impressed his voice hasn’t gone staticky.

What would Markus taste like if Connor leaned in and mouthed the lines of his shoulder? If Connor squashed his nose into the dip of his waist?

His chest looks simultaneously firm and plush—would his tongue exert enough pressure to create a soft divot in Markus’s skin? If Connor turned his head twenty-two degrees more to the left, then all of his questions will be answered.

RA9, he only needed to move, then everything he ever wanted his life since he stumbled onto deviancy—_Markus, _his traitorous mind whisper—will finally be in reach.

Markus shifts, ducking his head closer to Connors. “Something you want Connor?” he asks, eyes are unbearably bright as he looks down. “You’re unusually quiet today.”

Connor swallows the thick lump in his throat—

—Markus’s door slams in the background.

“Markus!” Simon yells. “I know you’re in here! Stop pinging away my calls. You can’t keep avoiding me forever—oh hello, Connor.” Simon stumbles on the last step, in his business wear and a stack of folder in his hands. 

Markus and Connor jump away from each other, the heady spell encasing them shattering like a flimsy mirror..

“Am I…” Simon’s eyes jump from Connor’s blue face, then to Markus’s unbuttoned shirt.

Markus folds his arms and raises one eyebrow in challenge. They stare at each other for a millisecond, a blink for a human, a noticeable passage of time for an android. If they still had their LEDS attached, Connor bets that it’d both be flashing.

He has a slight feeling that’s he’s missing something very important.

“…Pardon me, guys,” Simon says. “I have received a sudden transmission. Josh urgently needs my presence and I need to leave. Again, apologies for the interruption. Nice seeing you, Connor. I’ll talk to you later.”

Connor steps forward. “If it’s urgent, shouldn’t Markus and I be present as well—”

“No!” Simon and Markus says simultaneously.

Connor blinks in shock. 

“I mean,” Markus flusters, softening his voice. “It’s not so urgent that both Simon and Josh can’t handle it.”

Simon nods. “Yes. You’re completely right, Markus. You’re better suited here… with Markus. Helping him. ” Somehow finding his composure, Simon gives Connor a very firm look. “It’s _ very _important that you stay here and assist Markus with the fundraiser, Connor.”

Connor tilts his head. “If you insist?”

“I do. I heavily insist,” Simon says, almost bolting out the door. “And, Markus?”

“Yes, Simon?” Markus says, already striding across the room and holding the door open. 

Connor can imagine Markus tapping his foot in a silent demand right now. 

“Simon, my dear friend, to whom I’m eternally indebted to?” Markus says. “You addressed me?”

“Consider the rest of your day cleared,” he says out loud. “I advise you to take advantage of it, because who knows when you’ll have another day free like this.” His voice changes to a low hiss. “Certainly not in the next _ month _once I finish with you so you better be grateful and—”

“Perfect! Thank you, Simon,” Markus says, closing the door behind him.

Connor can hear the tell-tale sound of the lock being clicked in place. His eyebrows shoot to the roof.

“You and Simon are acting very strange today,” Connor says. “Are you sure he won’t need our help with Josh out there?”

“I’m sure, Connor,” Markus says, giving him a blinding smile. He masterfully directs Connor away from the door, towards the kitchen table again, and Connor lets him. Sure Markus is acting strange, but hey, Connor’s not going to pass up any opportunity to spend more time with him.

“Besides,” Markus says. “We still have more shirts to consider, not to mention which pants will go with it—”

And that’s where Connor’s processors starts overclocking because Markus? Constantly dressing and undressing in front of him? Shuffling and shimmying his thick thighs and generous ass while he asks for Connor’s opinion? 

RA9, Connor’s not going to survive this.

What has he gotten himself into? 

**Author's Note:**

> *sighs*


End file.
